‘And this company you work for...’ He handed her the pepper mill, watched as she ground the spice over broiled lobster, his mouth curving in amusement as it was handed back. ‘This Brockway and Laffan—it does exist, I suppose?’
‘Of course.’ Her eyes widened in mock reproof. ‘How can you doubt it? They are one of the oldest chambers in the City.’
‘And your position with them?’
‘Is a very junior one. I’ve been there since I qualified, three years ago, and if I work hard I have hopes of a partnership—a junior partnership—in, oh, in about twenty years’ time.’
‘As soon as that, eh?’ One elbow on the table, a finger moving against the almost smiling mouth, he leaned forward.
The compelling gaze, more violet than blue, held her in an intense, very nearly intimate scrutiny—so intimate that her whole body came alive with the joy of it—pulses throbbing, blood singing, heart pounding, eyes glowing.
‘But I shall be surprised, Miss Ginny Browne, to find you still with Brockway and Laffan in two years, let alone twenty.’
‘Really?’ Silly to sound so breathless, so naive, when she most certainly was not, when all she was doing was enjoying herself with an intelligent, attractive man and with absolutely no strings. That was what made it such a special attraction. ‘And where do you imagine I’ll be in...yes, let’s say in two years’ time?’
‘Not, I suggest, among the dusty files of one of the oldest firms in the City of London.’
‘The oldest firm does not necessarily imply fusty Dickensian premises.’
‘Ah, so you’re in modern offices?’
‘Not exactly.’ Later she might explain that they occupied a pair of terraced houses built originally for well-to-do city merchants. Elegant staircases led to the partners’ chambers, with masses of highly polished mahogany and brass, and there were walled gardens to the rear, which were fragrant in summer with old-fashioned roses and honeysuckle, pinks and peonies. It was light years from his prestigious penthouse, but there was little doubt as to which she preferred.
‘You are being so provoking and evasive, Miss Browne.’ He frowned, emphasising the degree of his disapproval by covering her hand with his. The thumb stroked her gently and, though it was difficult to admit, excitingly. His expression continued to show amusement. ‘Do they teach that at law school these days?’
‘They teach us to be accurate and questioning!’ Her manner was tart, a little defensive, and all because of that disturbing touch. If she could extract her hand casually, or... A tiny shudder was repressed. What if she were to obey her instincts, if she were to turn her hand over so their palms were in contact, with the possibility of fingers lacing? Her eyes grew dreamy with longing and there was a powerful but unfamiliar sensation in the pit of her stomach...
And then he moved, severing the moment, the indulgence. She sighed relief and...and she would not think of frustration. Hurriedly she tried to backtrack. ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘And that was?’
Now she must keep the conversation light, with no opportunity for emotional complications. ‘Where do you imagine I shall be in two years’ time?’ Oh, heavens! Was she being deliberately provocative? Inviting speculation which she hoped would flatter or at least please her?
‘Married, I should say was the most likely scenario.’
‘Married?’ Her tone suggested he’d mentioned a synonym with slavery and bondage. ‘But even if I were to marry...’ she continued with the pretence that such a circumstance had never entered her mind, longing to grin at herself but managing to keep a straight face. ‘...and that would be if the worst should happen—that does not mean I would leave the company.’
‘It might.’ He pursed his lips, his amused expression lingering. ‘But, then again, it might not. I concede to that extent.’
The best defence was attack, and at that moment she felt much in need of defence—from her own feelings if from nothing else. ‘Now, Mr Vanbrugh, first of all, you don’t even know me. I might be already married.’
‘No ring.’ He caught her left hand, smiling in triumph, and took it to his mouth.
Without an impressive degree of self-control she would surely have flinched, but she was confident her inner turmoil was totally concealed—other than, perhaps, a tiny tremble in her voice which might have given him a clue.
‘Neither,’ she began firmly, ‘do you wear a ring.’ They ought not to be going down this road, ought not to be acting in this silly, almost—oh, heavens—almost flirtatious way. At least, she ought not to be—he might be excused. ‘But I certainly do not make the deduction that you are unmarried...’
‘It would be the right one.’
His reply in itself might have set off alarm bells, but all she was aware of was a throb of satisfaction. ‘Nevertheless, it need not have been.’
‘Are you telling me...?’ When she pulled gently, he released her hand. ‘Are you telling me I was wrong to draw implications from the absence of a ring?’
‘Not exactly,’ she said primly, repressing the desire to smile but capitulating when he grinned.
‘I rest my case.’ Both of them sat back, smiling at each other, while waiters came to remove plates and to serve the next course.
It was impossible, she conceded with a tiny pain immediately below her ribs, to pretend she didn’t find him dangerously attractive. In a room full of good-looking, wealthy men he stood out. That was not simply her own opinion—more than one woman in their immediate neighbourhood would probably be willing to neglect her escort for Jake Vanbrugh. That he had been recognised when they arrived was obvious—he had exchanged casual greetings with several couples but had shown no signs of wishing to linger or introduce them to Ginny.
They were drinking strong black coffee when he dropped his bombshell, one which made her crash down her cup and look at him in consternation. ‘On Saturday, Ginny, I’m going down to Richmond to visit my parents. I want you to come with me.’
‘What?’ She frowned, taking a moment to allow her brain to absorb the implications. Then her reaction was immediate. ‘Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly; I wouldn’t dream of intruding.’ The whole situation was getting out of hand. It was Mr Hugo Vanbrugh she had come all this way to see; there had been no intention of becoming involved with other members of his family.
She felt a sob begin to rise in her throat as thoughts of her own deceit began to hit her. She had meant to be so honest, so understanding. Certainly the last thing in her mind had been the possibility of some kind of perverse emotional entanglement. But she could at least nip that in the bud—she herself was the only one who might suffer and...
‘You wouldn’t be.’ The flimsy excuse was disregarded the instant it was uttered, and with the smiling charm which was proving impossible to resist.
They decided to stroll back to her hotel. The limousine was dismissed and it was impossible for Ginny to deny the pleasure of the experience—being with a handsome man with unobtrusive good manners, added to a certain amount of euphoria engendered by the wine...
‘My parents are hospitable people,’ he continued, his hand touching her elbow to warn of an obstruction in their path. ‘And I know they would love to see you.’
Now his touch became more of a threat. He seemed to be tempting her into a trap of her own making, arousing feelings she was reluctant to face, and her shiver was an involuntary reaction.
‘You’re cold. I knew we should have been driven.’
‘No, I’m not cold.’ She took a firm grip of herself. ‘Not in the very least. It was simply... Anyway...’ A change